


The Coffee Caper, or Remedial Heists for Former Avengers

by LizzieHarker



Series: A Comedy of Arrows [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Hawkeye (Comics)
Genre: A Comedy of Arrows, And we all learn what a civet is, Battle Boyfriends, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes needs a mocha, Clint Barton has a problem, Clint has his sassy pants on, Coffee, Except for Bucky Barnes, Gen, God Bless Clint Barton, Heists, No one flirts harder than Clint Barton, Outfit of Tracksuits, Seriously bro, Someone's a jealous bitch, Steve might kill him though, Trash and Nature, and anti-anxiety meds, and better friends, capers, maybe they end up in jail?, sniper bros, tracksuit mafia - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-09-30 06:51:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10156676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizzieHarker/pseuds/LizzieHarker
Summary: Bucky Barnes, aka The Winter Soldier, woke up from cryosleep, dismantled the trigger words in his head, and resumed dating Steve Rogers.He's also in therapy for depression and anxiety, but you can't really blame the guy. It's been a hell of a century.Bucky also isn't a morning person. When Clint Barton, aka, Hawkeye, shows up at 3am, he better have a damn good reason.And a double-shot mocha with extra whip.(Spoilers: He doesn't.)





	1. Chapter 1

**0256:**

Bucky didn’t know who’d be dumb enough to break into the apartment Captain America shared with the Winter Soldier. Considering the only person he _could_ think of was currently in bed beside him, Bucky swore under his breath and crept into the kitchen wearing nothing but loose sleeping pants and a scowl.

There, he found his answer.

“What the fuck, Barton? It’s three in the morning,” he hissed.

Clint poured himself a cup of coffee as if it were the most natural thing in the world. It probably was—for Barton, anyway. No, not probably. Definitely.

“Ran outta coffee,” he answered. Clint lifted the cup to his lips, closing his eyes in bliss as he drank.

Bucky’s metal fingers twitched with the effort of not strangling him. Some reactions were difficult to unlearn. Being exhausted didn’t help. “So, you broke into my apartment at three in the morning?”

“Didn't break in. Have a key.” Clint held up his other hand, holding a key between two fingers. A half white, half red star on a blue field decorated the bow. “So it’s not a B&E. Just an E.”

“When the hell did you get a key to my apartment?”

Clint looked at the coffee pot like it might provide an answer. It didn’t. “Uh, Steve gave it to me?”

Bucky closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath. “Why would Stevie give you a key?” He opened his eyes and stared at Clint. Damn it, Steve. “That’s an ‘Oh shit, Bucky’s in trouble’ key, isn't it?” Clint hid behind his cup to keep from speaking. Coffee wouldn’t help him there, either.

“Yeah. It is.” Bucky sighed, glancing toward their bedroom. Steve could have _at least_ mentioned giving Clint a key. He wouldn’t have been mad. Hell, it would have saved him some trouble the last time he'd locked his keys in the apartment. And he couldn’t fault Steve for being protective. It was kinda his thing.

“Fine. Steve gave you a key. Doesn't mean you can break in here and steal our coffee, bro.” He turned back, only to find Clint rifling through the cabinets. “Really?” he asked.

Clint stared at the can of frosting in his hand, Steve’s name in Bucky’s handwriting across the label. “You guys name-label your food?”

Bucky plucked the container from Clint’s hand and returned it to the shelf. “That one ain't for cupcakes, Barton.”

Clint shifted his focus back toward the bedroom. “Say, uh, I didn’t interrupt anything, did I?”

Bucky took advantage of Clint’s distraction and snatched the coffee pot away. If only. Maybe Clint would have broken into Natasha’s place instead. “Trust me, you’d know.” He took a swing straight from the pot, warm and soothing. There was no way in hell he’d get back to bed now. “We were sleeping.”

Clint snorted. “Why are you in bed so early?”

“Because we’re in our 90s, Barton. We’re old. Why aren’t _you_ in bed?”

“You didn’t invite me over. I’m hurt.”

“Cute,” Bucky said, slinging his right arm around Clint’s waist. “Keep flirtin’ with me and you might just get what you’re askin’ for.”

Clint snorted. “Cap’ll love that.”

“Never know. Stevie might be into it. Too bad you won’t live long enough to find out.” Bucky popped up and brushed a kiss across Clint’s cheek before pushing himself onto the counter. “He’s gonna bash your skull in with his shield when he finds out you drank his coffee.”

Clint turned to the coffee pot with a look of betrayal. “Aw, coffee, no.”

“Aw, coffee, yes.” Bucky took another sip. “He loves this ridiculous French roast or whatever the hell it is. And you futzing drank it.”

“You’re drinking it, too,” Clint said, glaring.

“Yeah, but I’m his boyfriend. You, Hawkguy, are screwed.”

Clint slumped against the counter with a sigh. “Tell him to get in line.”

Bucky tilted his head. Clint looked exhausted and it wasn't a lack of coffee. Not _just_ lack of coffee. “What’s going on, bro?”

“I need your help. Actually, I need the Soldier’s help.” Bucky raised a brow. Clint took another drink. “The Tracksuits are at it again, and the only way to beat a questionably dressed gang of vaguely Eurasian origin is with a bigger, scarier, less-tracksuit-more-armor Russian.”

“Barton, you know I’m from Brooklyn.”

“Let me finish! I need a scarier, less-tracksuit-more-armor Russian-trained boogeyman.” He reached up and set a hand on Bucky’s metal shoulder. “You are the night, bro.”

Bucky paused. “Is that a reference?”

“You’re killin’ me, Barnes,” Clint groaned. “Movie night. We need one. Post-mission popcorn and celebratory couch surfing.”

He tilted his head. Bucky was currently about as terrifying as a dishrag with his bed hair and pajamas. “You’re tellin’ me you want me to go full Soldier on the Tracksuits and frighten them so bad, they leave you alone?” He’d never admit it to Steve (or his therapist) but he kinda liked being a ghost story.

“Half-Soldier might be adequate.”

“I don’t do shit by halves, Barton.”

Clint held up his hand and his coffee mug. “You’re right, you’re right. And it ain’t just scarin’ ‘em. They’ve got a safe.”

Bucky took drink then leaned over to refill Clint’s mug. This kept getting better and better. “A safe.”

“A suspicious safe.”

“What’s in it?”

Clint rolled his eyes. “How should I know, it’s a safe! It’s probably full of . . . safe things. You gonna help me or what?”

“Of course, I’m gonna help you,” Bucky said, sliding off the counter. “You’re my best bro.” He drained the last of the coffee and set the pot in the sink. “You know where they are?”

“Fancy hotel doing bad-guy stuff. There’s some kinda auction, and well, it looks pretty bad.”

“Doesn’t it always. Man, they just keep gunnin’ for you, don’t they?”

“What can I say?” Clint finished off his coffee then beamed at Bucky. “I’m an attractive guy.”

“You’re a disaster.”

“The two aren’t mutually exclusive.”

Bucky sighed. Hopefully, this would be better than Steve’s pre-dawn running regiment. Fuck anything before noon. He had plans to sleep until tomorrow after this. “Fine. Lemme get dressed. Bad-guy stuff and safe things,” he muttered, wandering back toward his bedroom to hunt down his tactical vest and boots. “You are so lucky I’ve got a thing for dumb blonds.”

“Aw, thanks bro.” Bucky waited. “Hey!” There it was. He smirked.

The bedroom door shut with soft click. Thank whatever merciful god there might be that Steve could sleep through anything. Well, almost anything. The only thing that managed to wake Steve out of a dead sleep were Bucky’s nightmares. The thrashing and yelling probably didn't help. But even asleep, Steve would eventually notice Bucky’s absence.

Once dressed, he snuck over to Steve’s side of the bed and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

Steve sighed, a smile pulling at his lips. “Mmmmmloveyou,” he mumbled.

Bucky laughed softly. Awake or asleep, Steve was ridiculous. “Love you too, punk. I’ll be back soon.”

The Winter Soldier slipped out of the bedroom, paused, and then took a pen and paper from Steve’s desk.

“What’re you doing?” Clint asked. He’d brewed another pot of coffee and hadn’t bothered with a mug this time. Bucky arched a brow. Clint raised a travel mug, sloshing the contents. Good. At least he’d saved some.

“Leaving a note. Or three. You think your Tracksuit problem is bad, imagine Stevie waking up to find his paranoid, amnesiac boyfriend gone without a word.”

“Oh. Yeah. That _would_ be bad.”

“Very. Almost as bad as drinking his coffee.” Bucky finished, going back to leave one note on his pillow, one on the kitchen counter, and one on the front door. Three should be enough. Right?

 _I’ll text him in a few hours_ , Bucky decided. “Hey, where’s your Hawkeye gear?”

“I’ll replace the coffee, okay? And, uh, my bow’s by the door.”

“No tactical gear?”

“Why?”

Bucky realized he should know better by now. Steve and Clint both lacked common sense. “Who let you be an Avenger? You’re as bad as Steve.”

“Technically, bro, we’re unemployed. No Avengers. Plus they let me in because I’m the greatest sharp-shooter in the world. I never miss. Ever. Bonus: I’m funny _and_ I’m adorable.”

Clint had a point. “Can’t argue there. So, scaring Tracksuits?”

“Everyone needs a hobby.”

Bucky tossed the pillows off the sofa until he found his half-mask. “I thought you handled that. With the creepy clown guy, and the lethality, and whatever.”

Mask, check. He patted his vest. Knives, check. Pause. Bucky turned to him. “Wait. You said _their_ safe.”

“Yeah.”

“So this has nothing to do with you or your building or your tenants.”

Clint shrugged. “Not technically, but do I need a reason to want to grind asshole mafia bros into the ground?”

“No. Basically what you’re saying is we’re kicking the hornet’s nest.”

Clint leaned against the counter, casually drinking Steve’s coffee. “Like I said, everyone needs a hobby.”

“ _That’s_ the reason you got my fine ass outta bed at three in the futzing morning?”

“It’ll be fun?” he offered.

“It’d better be,” Bucky replied.

Guns, check. He slipped two grenades out of a compartment in the coffee table, took another knife from behind one of Steve’s paintings, and then plucked the travel mug from Clint’s hand. “I think I’m set, bro.”

At least Clint had the good sense to rinse out the coffee pot. Bucky knew it for a rare act of self-preservation. Steve might be slightly less . . . _Steve_ about Clint drinking his coffee. Twice. Clint assessed his level of success then turned his attention to Bucky, looking him over boot to head. “Forgot your eyeliner.”

Bucky glowered. “Dude, the right words are black camouflage war paint, okay?” Clint scooped up his bow and arrows and slipped into hall, grinning like an idiot. Bucky locked the door behind him. “Futzing hell, none of you are ever gonna get over that, are you?”

Clint smiled harder. “Nope!”

***

 **0350** :

“So, what’s the plan?”

Bucky peered over the edge of the rooftop; the Tracksuit mafia stood below. Several guys hefted the safe out of the back of a van. The cover of darkness wasn’t enough to hide their hideous bad-guy wardrobe choices. Seriously, what was with the tracksuit thing?

Clint shifted beside him. “Uh, plan?”

He let out a long breath. “Yes, Barton, the plan. How’re we doing this?”

“You scare them off, I grab the safe? I mean, they’re not inside the hotel yet. Doubt they’d be let in through the front doors. I mean look at ‘em. If we strike now, we can minimize the risk of exposure and civilian damages. And we wouldn’t have to explain the sudden and disturbing return of the Winter Soldier.”

Bucky quashed the fear that bubbled in his chest. Doing anything as the Winter Soldier was a risk. If Hydra caught wind of him . . . “Yeah, let’s leave me a ghost. You go distract them. Dude, why were they at your building anyway?” Confusion colored Clint’s face. “I assume that’s where you overheard this plot with the safe and things?”

“Oh, yeah. Bro, if only I knew. Hopefully, you’ll solve that problem for me. And by the time we’re done, we can stop at Starbucks. I’ll buy you a mocha,” he added.

“If a mocha’s on the line, I’ll do better than my best,” Bucky said. He put on his mask and aimed the sniper rifle at the street.

Clint slipped back down to ground level, a smile on his face and a spring in his step. He waved. “Hey there, fellas. Fancy meeting you here.”

One of the Tracksuits nudged another, pointing to Clint. “Seriously, bro? What you think you doing? Bro, you make mistake, bro.” He reached into his velour monstrosity and slipped a gun from an interior pocket. Bucky would take his heavy-as-hell-but-damn-sexy vest any day.

Bucky fired, knocking the gun out of the Tracksuit’s hand. He swore, clutching his bleeding fingers and looking up. “Bro, seriously. Who did that?”

“You really don’t wanna find out. Trust me. You won’t have to if you give me the safe and walk outta here. We can pretend this never happened.”

The Tracksuit scoffed. “You hear this guy? Bro, you make BIG mistake, bro. You want safe? You take safe. If you dodge bullets, bro. Can’t stop bullet with string and stick, bro.”

Clint shrugged. “Oh, well. Can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Bucky ran across the roof, jumped to the next rooftop, dropped onto a lower ledge, and finally hit the ground.

“Seriously, bro? You bring back up? Only one guy, bro? Bro.”

Clint turned around. Bucky stood in the middle of the street, malice dripping from his gaze. “Yeah, I invited a friend to the party. Didn’t think you’d mind.” He smirked. “Seriously, bro.”

Bucky started forward, the shadows sliding off him. One by one, their expressions went from smug to terrified. He grinned beneath his mask.

Oh yeah, this _would_ be fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're right, Buck. This IS going to be fun.
> 
> Thanks to CoffeeHawk for inspiration and ridiculous text messages. Some of this dialogue I shamelessly stole from her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky Barnes, AKA The Winter Soldier, and Clint Barton, AKA Hawkeye, are about to cause a lot of trouble for a gang of tracksuited bros with a safe.
> 
> This is useless information. If you read the last chapter, you know all this. 
> 
> Why are you still reading the summary?

**0353:**

The driver slid out of the van. Bucky stopped, tilting his head. His eyes darted to Clint. Clint looked a hawk who’d caught a field mouse—overly excited and eager to do some damage. “Aw, bros, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Bucky struggled to remain emotionless. _For fuck’s sake, Barton._

The bro he’d shot picked up his gun with his uninjured hand and waved it between them.

“Is four versus two, bro. Odds not in your favor.”

Clint shrugged. “They’re always in my favor. Sometimes I just don’t know it. You gotta notice how I’ve never actually _won_ the bleeding contest before, right? Besides,” he added, “you’re cut-rate bad guys. I got my very own Soviet assassin.”

Two of the Tracksuits exchanged looks before laughing. “Bro, you got friend—seriously stupid friend, bro—to pretend to be fairytale? You think we scared of ghost story, bro? Seriously.”

Bucky turned to stare them down once more, keeping his voice flat. “Kto pritvoryayetsya?” 

The color rapidly draining from their faces was priceless. They backed up. Bucky clenched his left hand, the metal plates shifting.

Loudmouth Tracksuit looked a whole lot less certain. “Bro, bro, seriously. You control Soldier, bro?”

Clint’s grin vanished. “Nope. Not how I operate.”

Bucky thought Clint's fingers twitched, itching for an arrow, but Bucky found himself too preoccupied with trying not to be sick at the thought of being controlled by anyone again. He didn’t have a plan if they actually killed any of them. Not to mention Steve would be pissed if he found out Bucky’d used his body-vanishing skills. He might look the other way though, considering.

The Tracksuit snorted. “You even speak Russian, bro?

Just like that, the grin was back. “Nu, konechno!” He shrugged. “Bro.”

Bucky blinked. Since when did Clint speak Russian? Oh, right: master assassin. 

“I’m gonna be real nice and give you one last chance to give us the safe,” Clint said, rocking back on his heels. Then he raised his bow and reconsidered. “Nah. To hell with being nice.”

The Tracksuits pointed their guns at Clint. “Big mistake, bro.”

“Maybe. Probably. But in the words of Black Panther, ‘I don’t care.’” 

_Ready, Player One?_ Clint signed before reaching back for an arrow.

Bucky pulled the gun from between his shoulder blades and fired twice, disarming them. Again.  
_Ready._

The plates locked along his arm. A good, old-fashioned Brooklyn brawl would be nice. Bucky took a step forward; the Tracksuits bolted.

“Aw, come on! That’s not even _fun_ ,” Clint whined. He loosed an arrow, the bolt shattering on impact. The two Tracksuits went down in a heap, covered in black muck. Bucky turned to Clint, who waved another bolt. “Putty arrow.”

Drawing himself up, Bucky made every motion lethal as crossed the alley to the two on the ground while Clint sought a better perch. The one he hadn’t shot twice attempted to put his gun at Bucky’s head. Cute. He crushed the barrel in his left hand, jerked it out of the bro’s grip, and clocked him in the temple. The other guy started babbling, trying to worm his way free. Bucky removed his mask and crouched beside him, letting his all his teeth show in a grin sharp enough to slice. 

“Prosi,” he whispered. Bucky didn’t have to lift a finger. The Tracksuit scrambled to get free, slipped, and knocked himself out. Dumbass. Bucky straightened, pouting. “You’re right, bro. This _isn’t_ fun.”

The echoing click of several larger guns echoed in the alley. Bucky turned to find an outfit of Tracksuits, the streetlight gleaming off guns, brass knuckles, and bludgeons. 

“Okay,” Bucky admitted. “That’s better. Barton?”

“Gotcha covered!” Two more arrows rained down, catching one Tracksuit in the wrist and another in the arm. “Love the murder strut, by the way. Do it again?”

Bucky set his mask into place, then cranked his left shoulder back. “You got it.” The plates in his arm shifted and clicked as he balled his fist and strode into the middle of the fight. Bullets ricocheted off his palm with a satisfying plink; one of them embedded itself into a Tracksuit’s leg before Bucky slammed his head into a dumpster. The next one went down, nose broken when his face met Bucky’s elbow. The air hummed as one of Clint’s electro-arrows struck home, and Bucky laughed to himself as the guy dropped. Of course, the stupid ones got back up. 

Clint’s bow skittered to the ground at Bucky’s feet a second before Bucky heard a metallic crash and the blond swearing up a storm. Clint lay sprawled out on top of the truck, staring at him upside down. “Ow. Okay. That looked bad, didn’t it?”

“Not the most graceful I’ve seen you, no.” Bucky reached out to help him down. One of the Tracksuits snatched up Clint’s bow and a wayward arrow.

“Ha! Bro, you lost your string and stick. What you do now, bro?”

Clint nudged Bucky in the ribs. “Watch this. This is gonna be futzing hilarious.”

Bucky crossed his arms and leaned into him. The Tracksuit nocked the arrow, aiming at Clint’s chest. Smirking, he made to draw the string back. 

It didn’t budge.

He tried again. One of his friends moved to help him, then wrenched the bow away. “Too weak, bro. I try.”

Clint checked the time on his phone. “Lemme know when you’re done, okay?”

“What’s your draw, Barton?” Bucky asked. Clint had let him use it exactly once. The draw had been easy, supersoldier serum notwithstanding. As far as he knew, Clint was a standard human. 

He dropped his arm around Bucky’s shoulder. “Two hundred and fifty pounds.”

Bucky whistled appreciatively. “No wonder you’ve got nice shoulders. Damn, you're smokin’ hot.”

“Aw, thanks,” he answered. He looked back at the Tracksuits. “You guys done yet, or . . . ?”

“Is trick bow, bro! Where is real one?”

“You mock us, bro?”

Clint arched a brow. “Well, you don’t exactly make it hard.” He pushed away from Bucky and turned to root around in the pile of broken objects beside the dumpster. 

“Uh, Barton? What are you doing?”

“Don’t sweat it. They’ll be occupied for at least five minutes and probably impale on another on that arrow.”

Bucky stepped back to watch the scene unfold, bored. He checked his phone; no message from Steve. Must still be asleep, then. Maybe he’d pick up breakfast on the way back, surprise Steve with bagels from that shop he liked. He fired off a text. Breakfast in bed would be awesome. If he was really lucky, the bagels might be enough to convince Stevie to stay in. They still had that other bath bomb . . .

Something white shot past him, clocking first one mafia bro, then the other. They crumpled. Clint raced past, snatching up his bow and whatever he’d thrown. “How many was that, bro? I can’t tell. Their moms must’ve coordinated all their outfits for them.” He leapt onto the dumpster and over a low balcony. Clint flicked his wrist, his impromptu weapon sending a third bro to the ground. “Too bad they all got dressed in the dark.”

The dingy, half broken whatever landed on the Tracksuit’s head. Bucky blinked. “You just took ‘em out with a lampshade.”

“Yup.”

Bucky pressed his hand to his heart. “I’m crushin’ on you so hard right now.”

Clint smirked. “Feelin’s mutual, Barnes. Hey,” he said, leaning over his perch. “If Nat’s my work wife, does this make you my battle boyfriend?”

He smirked right back. “Fuck yes, it does.” 

Clint wiggled another bolt between his fingers. “Wanna wrap this up and head back to your place for that victory movie? You, me, the couch, and a selection of best worst cinematic masterpieces?”

“Sounds great. Let’s steal us a safe and put these guys outta their misery. Starin’ at their wardrobe is hurting my eyes.”

Bucky watched him pull an arrow from his quiver, draw it around his head, nock it, and fire. The arrow struck the ground at the Tracksuits’ feet. 

Bucky waited, but nothing happened. “Uh, Barton?”

Clint pulled his quiver around. “What the futz? I never have a dud! Okay, not true. Pizza arrows didn’t work out the way I’d hoped, but that should have done _some_ thing.”

Bucky opened his mouth and was immediately accosted by the scent of vanilla and the acrid taste of . . . “Perfume arrow?”

The Tracksuits exchanged looks. “Bro, what the hell, bro? Seriously?”

Bucky burst out laughing. 

Clint frowned. “Damn it, Katie-Kate. When I said ‘make your own arrows,’ this is not what I meant,” he muttered. “At least I smell kinda nice. Florals are terrifying, right?”

“Nightmare inducing,” Bucky gasped, trying to catch his breath. “Oh, man.” 

“Whatever.” Clint pulled a face at him and let another arrow fly before reclaiming his space beside Bucky. It skittered along the ground, stopping at the nearest pair of hideous boots. Who the futz wore _boots_ with a tracksuit? 

The bro in more-than-questionable taste bent down. “Uh, bro? You miss.”

Bucky winced away when Clint slugged him in the arm. The blond answered absently, “I never miss.”

The arrowhead exploded, releasing a cloud of gas. The genius who’d examined the arrow dropped first, followed by the next one, and the one after.

“ _That_ was the arrow I was aiming for. Heh. Aiming.” He jerked his thumb in their direction. “Sleeping Gas arrow. It was that or the Smoke Bomb arrow. Once, I fired a Suction Cup arrow by mistake. Man, that was bad.”

Bucky hooked a finger into the quiver, pulling it toward him and knocking Clint off balance. “How many different arrows you got?”

Clint smirked. “We both know you’re acquainted with the Boomerang arrow.”

“Yeah, let’s not relive that,” Bucky said. “What do we do with these guys?”

“I’m glad you asked.” He held up a fistful of rope. “How good are you at tying knots?”

*

The two of them made quick work of the mafia goons. Bucky thought to leave them sitting in the alley, but Clint had other plans.

Clint pushed the lid of the dumpster up and out of the way. “It’s the only place a Tracksuit belongs.”

Bucky recoiled. Even his mask couldn’t hide the stench. “Oh, that is _definitely_ not a nice dumpster. Good choice.”

They dropped them in, closed it up, then turned their attention to the truck. 

“Safe’s in the back?” Bucky asked. 

“Yeah.”

“We crackin’ it?”

“Uh . . .”

“I’m getting no. You don’t have a lock pick arrow, do you?”

Clint perked up. “Oh man, that’s a great idea.”

“I didn’t bring my tools.”

“Do you-“

Bucky gave him a flat stare. “No, Clint, I don’t have a bobby pin in my hair.”

“Aw, man. Fine. We’ll just grab the safe,” Clint said, climbing into the back of the truck. Bucky stood at the gate and watched as Clint sized up the safe. He’d assumed it would be bigger. The little black box sat in the back corner, thoroughly inconspicuous as far as suspicious safes filled with suspicious safe things went. And there was no need for bobby pins; the safe had a combination dial. Clint slid his hands beneath it; the safe remained in place. 

“What the hell?” 

Bucky tilted his head. “Lift with your legs.”

Clint glared. “I am. Futzing thing won’t move.” He shoved at it; it scraped along the bottom of the truck. Bucky grimaced. Clint scooted it over to the edge of the gate before he tried lifting it again. Unable to pick it up, he kicked it instead. Bucky barely moved out of the way before it toppled to the ground.

“Aw, you dented it. Good job, Barton.”

“Shut up, Barnes.” Clint hopped down. “Gimme a hand with that thing will ya?”

Bucky hefted the safe onto his metal shoulder. “We good?”

“Yeah,” Clint said, stepping down and stuffing his hands in his pockets. 

Bucky hated the disappointment on his face. He fished one of the small, round grenades out of his pocket and held it out to Clint. “Wanna do the honors?”

Clint blinked, and then he sniffled, taking the bomb. “Aw, bro, you’re the best. How’d I get along without you?”

“Didn’t,” Bucky answered. “You and Stevie are both helpless without me.”

Clint pressed the timer on the bomb and rolled it beneath the truck. They passed the mouth of the alleyway three seconds before detonation, turning back to watch the truck belch acrid black smoke. It wouldn’t blow up like in those fancy action movies, but it’d do a hell of a lot of damage.

“Let’s stash the safe and clear out. We’ll come back for it after coffee,” Bucky said.

“Oh, man, yeah. Good plan.”

“Don’t forget, you owe me.”

“I gotcha. One white chocolate mocha, extra whip, for the badass Russian ghost with perfectly blended guyliner.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Black camouflage war paint, Barton.”

“Whatever. I like it. Makes your eyes pop.” Clint knocked into his shoulder.

“Well, I don’t commit felonies for just anyone, ya know. This better be great.”

Clint smirked. “Oh, it will be.”

*** 

**0459:**

Buck stashed the safe and stripped out of his vest, leaving most of his knives and his guns in the cache. Clint stared at him, awestruck. 

“How many knives do you have?”

“Twelve.” He didn’t have to count.

They decided to hit Starbucks first, then crack the safe. No use doing the hard work undercaffeinated. This early, there should be no lines, either. Once properly civilianized, they headed out. Clint slung his arm around Bucky’s shoulders. 

“Hey, thanks for this. Beating the Draculas is twice as fun with you around.”

“Any time, Barton,” Bucky said. “But if you get my ass outta bed at three in the morning again for anything short of an alien attack or rampaging dinosaurs, we’re gonna have a problem.”

Clint batted his lashes. “You love me.”

“Yeah, I do,” he conceded.

“I don’t think Steve does, though.” Clint twisted his mouth.

“Why’d ya say that?”

He shrugged. “He’s never happy to see me. I’ve heard him mumbling about regretting introducing us. I mean, I guess it was my idea.”

Bucky stopped and looked up at him. “What? I thought the whole ‘find Bucky a friend’ thing was his plan?”

“Kinda? We didn’t really get to chat pre-boss fight with the other Avengers, and after that, well,” Clint said, waving a hand in the air before opening the door to the coffee shop. “So when you came back, I asked Steve if you’d be up for hanging out. Didn’t know if you’d be ready or if you even wanted to stay here. Thought maybe having someone around who got the whole mindfutz thing might help.”

Bucky stared at Clint as he ordered and paid the barista, who was too tired to notice they both looked like they’d just been in a street fight. Which was, of course, true. “How are you supposed to be my other dumb blond boyfriend when you’re secretly smart as hell?”

Clint shrugged. “Hidden depths, Barnes. S’why I’m so great at my job.”

Bucky leaned against the counter. Steve liked Clint; he’d never said anything bad about him, never objected to Bucky spending time with him. Well, there was that one time with the pastry torch, the vegetable bin, and the yoga mat, but everything worked out okay. 

He took his coffee and followed Clint back onto the street. If Steve hadn’t liked Clint, he wouldn’t have asked him to help with the other Avengers. He wouldn’t have asked Bucky to meet him. 

The city stirred. He took a long drink of his mocha, trying to figure out why Clint thought Steve didn’t like him. Sure, Buck got a little flirty, but he flirted with everyone. Ninety percent of the reason he did it in the first place was Clint flirted back. Stevie wasn’t jealous . . . 

“Oh.”

“Oh?” Clint echoed. 

Bucky followed him across the street. “Yeah, I think I-”

The chirp of a siren nearly forced Bucky out of his skin, the morning lighting up red and blue. He looked at Clint, then at the cop to their left. 

“What are you boys doing out causing trouble this early?”

Clint raised his brows. “Uh . . .”

“What?” Bucky asked.

“You fellas got any idea why I’m stopping you?”

“Uh . . .”

“What?”

The cop frowned. “A little early for disorderly conduct, isn't it?”

“Why are you only speaking in questions?” Clint asked. “Is this a quest? You’re not sending us on a quest, are you?”

“This is coffee,” Bucky said, holding up his cup. “He’s always like this. It’s a charming, yet detrimental character flaw.”

The cop looked from one to the other. “You boys being smart with me?”

“No, sir,” Clint answered. “Just a dumb blond.”

Bucky elbowed him. “Oh my god, shut up. You’re gonna get us arrested.”

Cop Man hooked his thumbs through his belt loops. Futzing hell. “You think is this cute?”

“I’m good at being cute.” 

“ _Clint._ ”

“Seems like you boys wanna spend your morning sipping your fancy lattes in lockup.”

“Uh . . . for what?” Clint asked. And just to be a shit, he took a sip of his fancy latte.

Steve was gonna kill them. Steve would come to the jail, kill them both, and Bucky would die and be dead. Awesome.

“How far you wanna take this? I’m gonna add resisting arrest for one, smart ass.”

A muscle in Bucky’s jaw twitched. Anxiety tightened his chest. “What?” 

“Since when is walking down the street, sipping a fancy latte a crime?” Clint asked.

“For the love of coffee, Barton, _stop talking_ ,” Bucky hissed. 

“Drinking a coffee ain’t; mayhem is. So is causing a disturbance.” The cop unhooked a set of handcuffs. 

Fuck. 

Bucky couldn’t decide which was worse: not getting to finish his mocha, or having to call Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go!
> 
> Pizza arrow joke belongs to OMG_Hawkeye:  
> http://omg-hawkeye.tumblr.com/post/117117428209/omg-10
> 
> Thanks to Bohemienne for making my Russian (hopefully) suck less. The extent of my personal speaking skills is declaring "I want ice cream," so...


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky Barnes, AKA The Winter Soldier, and Clint Barton, AKA Hawkeye, have had a rough morning. 
> 
> They stole a safe and beat up a bunch of tracksuits: awesome.
> 
> They stopped for coffee because hydration is important, and it's nice to reward yourself for a heist well committed.
> 
> Sadly, their coffee was confiscated and they're now praying Steve, AKA Bucky's boyfriend, AKA (formerly) Captain America, will bail them out of jail.
> 
> This looks... not great.

**0520:**

Steve hadn’t answered his phone. This meant he was either still asleep (unlikely), running (ugh), or looking for Bucky (hahaha!) which meant Bucky had to do the unthinkable: leave Steve a voicemail. That was gonna go over real well. He tried not to cringe as the cop shut the door of the holding cell behind him.

“This is ridiculous,” Clint said, wrapping his hands around the bars. “Let us out.”

The cop raised a brow. “Now why would I do that?”

“Uh, I’m an Avenger.”

“Yeah, sure, pal.”

“I am!” Clint protested. “I got a card and everything.”

The cop looked around before narrowing his eyes. “Are you Iron Fist?”

Clint sighed, exasperated, and banged his head on the bars. “Why does everyone keep asking that?”

Bucky sat down on the bench. Sure, he could break the door, no problem, but that would increase the risk of someone noticing the metal arm, word getting out that the Winter Soldier was in New York, and probably lead to a whole lotta people trying to put him back into a cage. A worse cage than the drunk tank at this shithole police station.

“Can we at least have our drinks back?” The cop turned on his heel and left. Clint crossed his arm, pouting. “Futzing hell. This is so unfair.” He glanced over at Bucky. “He didn’t answer, huh?”

Bucky shook his head. If he didn’t look at the bars . . . He patted the bench beside him. Clint took the hint and sat. Bucky leaned into him and Clint dropped an arm around Bucky’s shoulders. 

“You okay?” 

Now wasn’t that a question for the ages? “More or less. I’m really looking forward to couch and movie time. Battery’s running low.”

Clint sighed, shaking his head. “Man, Cap’s really gonna kill me now.”

Bucky perked up. “Oh, right. That’s it.”

“That’s what?”

“You think Steve doesn’t like you.”

“No, I know he doesn’t.”

“You call him Cap. I get it now,” Bucky said. “You’re my Natasha.”

Clint opened one eye. “Huh? Not following. Not enough coffee.”

“Before the war, when Stevie was just a little guy, there were two people in the world who thought he mattered: his ma and me. Everyone doubted him. Everyone looked down on him. And even after he took the serum, they still thought he was worthless. He wanted to be a soldier and they made him a chorus girl. It wasn't until Azzano that people started recognizing his worth, and this may come as a surprise to you, but back then, I was a petty, jealous bitch.”

Clint’s eye went wide. “No! You? I’d never believe it.”

Bucky elbowed him. “I was so angry that suddenly everyone saw what I knew was there all along. But they were praising Captain America, not Steve.”

A memory flashed in his mind, snow and cold, the wind in his hair. Steve looked upset. The other Commandos waited for them at the bottom of the slope. He shivered, making a note to ask Steve about it later.

“Steve made Captain America. Steve made Cap a hero,” Bucky said. “But when he woke up here, in the future, everyone saw Cap.”

“Until he met Natasha,” Clint said.

Bucky nodded. “She saw Steve. In the whole world, Steve is the only person who knew me. Until I met you.” The corner of his mouth twitched up. “The minute we met, I knew you didn’t see the Soldier. You saw me.” His smile pulled into a smirk. “And now Steve is being a petty, jealous bitch.”

A shadow fell over the cell. “Steve’s being what now?” 

Steve stood on the opposite side of the bars, arms crossed, one golden eyebrow raised in question. Bucky’s heart gave a little flutter; Steve was wearing those eyeglasses Bucky loved.

Bucky stood up and leaned against the bars. “Hey there, sweetheart.”

“Don’t you ‘sweetheart’ me, James Buchanan,” Steve said, both exasperated and relieved. 

Bucky’s vision fractured; Steve stood on the other side of the bars, broad-shouldered and tall, but superimposed on the reality was the bird-boned spitfire he’d fallen in love with, hands on his hips, glowering down at Bucky even though he was so much shorter, his shirt too big and his suspenders loose. Bucky half-reached out to straighten Steve’s clothes before he remembered Steve was in a hoodie and jeans. 

“Uh oh, he two-named you, bro,” Clint said, calling Bucky back to himself. Then Clint turned a glare on him. “Wait, who the hell is James?”

Bucky blinked. Seriously? “Uh, me. I’m James.”

“Your name is _Bucky_. How do you get ‘Bucky’ out of ‘James?’”

Did Clint think ‘Bucky’ was written on his birth certificate or something? “Bucky is short for Buchanan. How do you not know this?”

Clint pouted. “I’m tired and it’s late—or early—and the stupid cop took my coffee and your name is Bucky so I didn’t think about your name being James. Besides,” he huffed, “I never finished school, so I missed out on the whole ‘let’s study Cap and the Commandos’ thing every other kid got. At least your boyfriend can’t two-name me.”

“The hell I can’t, Clinton Francis,” Steve said. Clint blanched. “How’d the two of you manage to get arrested?”

“Jaywalking,” Clint answered, rolling his eyes and making air quotes.

Steve's brows shot up, baffled.

“How do you get arrested for jaywalking in New York?”

“Clint couldn’t keep his mouth shut,” Bucky added. “Are you bailing us out? Please bail us out.” He stared at Steve, wide-eyed and sad. “I wanna go home, Stevie.”

Steve rolled his eyes and opened the cell door. “It wasn’t locked, you know.”

Clint glared and marched out. “Futzing hell.”

Bucky sidled up to Steve, slipping an arm around his waist. “He means ’thanks.’ He’s so hard to understand when he mumbles.”

“Did you two really get arrested for crossing the street like idiots?”

“Yup.”

Steve sighed. “I’m never letting you hang out with him again.”

“Yes, you will,” Bucky said. “I’ll pout until I get my way.”

“Fine. Just give me a couple weeks before you wind up in jail again. What names did you give them at the desk?”

“Charles Barton and James Grant.” Steve blushed. Bucky kissed his cheek. “And I promise. I’ll buy you breakfast, too, as a sign of contrition. I was gonna stop at that bagel place you like." Bucky traced a finger down Steve's spine." Maybe you can skip work and just stay in bed with me all day.”

Steve pressed his forehead to Bucky’s. “Sounds tempting. Clothing optional?”

“Always.” He paused. “Wait, you got here quick, even for a supersoldier. How’d you get the money to spring us?”

Steve looked at him, expression blank. “You know how some people have swear jars? I have a ‘Clint and Bucky Bail’ jar.”

Bucky blinked. Was he serious? “Are you serious?”

Steve didn’t answer. They caught up with Clint outside. Somehow, he’d managed to acquire another cup of coffee and he leaned against the wall, blissfully drinking. Bucky found himself deeply impressed by Clint’s coffee-finding skills. 

“And they say you don’t have super powers,” he teased.

Clint held out a tray, two more coffee cups sitting in the holder. One was labeled “Steeb,” the other “BAE.” Bucky raised an eyebrow at Clint. 

“Buck Above Everything,” Clint explained. 

Bucky snorted. “Right. Well.” He slipped his free arm around Clint’s waist. “Looks like I get to spend the morning with my best guy and my best friend. What could be better?”

“Aw, Buck,” Steve said, squeezing Bucky’s side. Bucky leaned up and kissed Clint’s cheek. Clint grinned like an idiot. Steve’s eyebrows shot up. Bucky shrugged. “Battle boyfriend deserves a reward for getting us coffee.”

“Battle boyfriend? Then what does that make me, Buck?”

He gave Steve a pointed look. “You’re a punk.” 

Steve smirked, nudging his shoulder. “Jerk.”

Bucky nuzzled against him. He loved spending time with Clint, but he did miss Steve and wasn’t sorry to have him there, even if Steve had to post bail. If that wasn’t love . . .

“Hey, Stevie,” he said, “do you remember a mission—maybe one of the first ones we went on as the Commandos—where they were waitin’ for us at the bottom of a hill? I think you were upset, and I said something about you making Captain America, not the other way around?”

Steve’s arm tightened around Bucky’s waist. “Yeah. You wanted to go sledding. Bribed Falsworth into stealing my shield.” Color rose up his neck. “You gave me a speech about how I’d earned my rank, and then you threatened me if I didn't go sledding.” Steve ducked his head. “We crashed and ended up kissing in the snow. Do you . . . Do you remember that?”

He wished he did. Bucky shook his head. “No. Not the kissing part, anyway.” He felt Steve’s arm drop. Bucky looked up, hoping he didn’t look sad. Steve couldn’t hide his disappointment. “Guess we’ll just have to make a new memory,” he offered.

Steve turned to kiss his cheek. “Guess we will.”

“Aww,” Clint said. “Might be a bit awkward with the three of us, though.”

Bucky snorted. Steve rolled his eyes. “Where are we going?”

Clint finished off his coffee and dropped the cup into a garbage can. “Gotta grab our gear. And the safe.”

“The . . . safe?” Steve asked. “You stole a safe?”

Clint glanced at Steve. “Is it stealing if we took it from the bad guys?”

“Yes.”

“Even if they were _really_ bad?”

“Yes, Clint.”

“Even if they committed fashion crimes against humanity?”

“What?”

“Nothing,” Clint said, smiling.

Steve set his jaw.

Clint turned to Bucky. “See? Told you Steve didn’t like me.”

Bucky laughed. This was great. “Stevie, lighten up and be nice to Clint. I like him. You’re always tryin’ to encourage me to get out there, make friends-“

“I didn’t suggest looking for trouble, Buck.”

“Says the man who continuously takes stupid risks,” he countered. “Tell me again about jumpin’ outta that plane without a parachute.” 

“Which time?” Clint added.

Steve blushed. The number of stupid things he’d done could fill a book, and Steve damn well knew it. 

Buck smirked. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” 

Clint broke away from them and uncovered their stash. “We better hurry it up. Can’t really carry a safe down the street in broad daylight, ya know?”

“Like that’s any weirder than carrying a bow and arrow through the city?”

“Target practice, bro. Here, you can hide the vest under your jacket. Don’t know what to do with the mask.”

Bucky took his gear. “I can put the mask in one of the pockets.”

Steve’s brow furrowed. “Mask? Vest?”

Shrugging out of his jacket, Bucky strapped his uniform back on. “I told you: we stole a safe from some bad guys.”

Steve’s eyes went wide. “You didn’t mention you did it as the Winter Soldier,” he hissed. “What the hell were you thinking, Buck? Do you not realize how dangerous that was?”

“It was just a couple Tracksuits, Cap.”

Steve sputtered. “You’re joking.”

Clint shot a look at Bucky. “Uh, no?”

Bucky slid his arm across Steve’s shoulders. “Steve, calm down. It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay. I know as far as enemies go, the Tracksuits are basically super-annoying mosquitoes with bad taste, but they’re not dumb enough to not mention a run-in with Hydra’s missing weapon.” Steve’s shoulders sagged. “I can’t lose you again, Buck. I can’t. Especially not for one of Clint’s stupid ideas.”

Clint winced. “Ouch.”

“You won’t.” Bucky wrapped his arms around him, threading his finger through Steve’s hair. “And it’s not Barton’s fault. I went along with it. It was my choice. I’m not going anywhere, Stevie.”

“Aw, now I feel bad,” Clint muttered. “You know I’d never let anyone hurt him. Get us arrested, sure . . .”

“Barton, don’t. I didn’t have to go, and I didn’t have to go as a scary Russian boogeyman. Can we please just get outta here? I’m dying to crack that thing open.” Steve nodded, but didn’t let go. “C’mon, baby. We’ll swing by the bagel place and grab breakfast, and then you can help us open the safe, okay?”

Clint grumbled. 

“What was that, Barton?”

“Nothing,” Clint sighed. “I guess I can share.”

“Aw, Clint,” Bucky said. He hadn’t meant to interrupt their hanging out. “You wanna stay for bagels? We can watch that weird videogame movie you were telling me about. With the weird-looking kid and the girl with the magic hair.”

Clint eyed him for a moment. “Fine, but only if we can cuddle.”

“That’s fair.”

“And I wanna be the little spoon.”

“Whatever you want, pal,” Bucky said, patting Clint’s shoulder. “Whatever you want.”

“You know,” Steve said, folding his arms as Buck lifted the safe, “you two have the handsy-est platonic relationship I’ve ever seen.”  
  
***  
  
**0630:**

  
Bucky tried to set the safe gently on the floor and nearly dropped it. He’d strained his left shoulder, his back and neck pulling uncomfortably. Steve ditched the bagels on the counter and moved to catch the safe, helping him get it to the floor. Clint rifled through the drawers for a knife. The plates in Bucky’s arm shifted as he rolled his shoulder back. Steve slipped up behind him, pressing his thumbs against the muscles along Bucky’s neck.

“Oh, man, that feels so good,” he groaned, dropping his head forward. Steve gave the best massages, and Bucky wanted to sink onto the couch and let Steve work him over, but supersoldier metabolism demanded he eat. “Barton, french toast bagel for me, veggie bagel for Steve, please.”

“You got it,” Clint said. “And then we crack the safe, right?” He practically bounced as he dug through the bagel bag.

“Food, then safe cracking,” Bucky agreed. Steve hit a tender spot; Bucky winced. 

“Sorry, sweetheart,” Steve said, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck.

“S’okay. Just don’t stop.”

“Whoa, boys, if it’s gonna be like that, I’m holding out for more than bagels.” Clint handed Buck a plate. “I have my dignity, after all. Somewhere.”

Bucky laughed. “I ain’t got the skills to wine-and-dine you, Barton. I might be able to sweet talk you into the sack, but I’m pretty sure at this point I can’t get up to anything more scandalous than a nap.”

Clint shrugged. “I’d take a nap.” He flopped onto the other side of the couch, kicked his legs up on Bucky’s lap, and took a bite out of his own bagel. “Futzing hell, these are awesome.”

Steve smiled. “Yeah, they really are. Best bagel in Brooklyn.”

“Oh, no.” Clint nudged Bucky’s leg. “I meant Bucky’s thighs. Could bounce a nickel off ‘em. Bagels are great too, though.”

Bucky nearly choked on his breakfast. “Clint, stop it. You’re gonna give him a complex.”

“You think his thighs are impressive, you should see his ass,” Steve said, as casually as he might discuss the weather. “Got killer abs, too. He’s a work of art, my Bucky.”

A shiver danced down Buck’s spine. Steve’s tone had stayed light, but there was no mistaking the possessive edge. He liked it. Clint smirked, raising his bagel in salute. Bucky leaned back into Steve, angling his head for a kiss. Steve delivered, warm and sweet, and Bucky nearly threw Clint out of their apartment then and there, especially after Clint let out a low whistle.

“Aw, you two are adorable,” he said, poking Bucky’s leg again. “Can we open the safe now?”

“You mean can I open the safe now, or do I need another twenty minutes to makeout with my boyfriend.”

“S’what I said, but, you know, polite.” He shrugged. “See? Dignity.”

Bucky pushed him. “One of these days, Steve is gonna forego the sass and punch you. Can you two play nice while I crack that thing?” He jerked a thumb at the safe.

Steve gave him his best puppy-dog look. “I'm always nice, Buck.”

He rolled his eyes, going to get his lock pick. “We all know that's a lie.”

“Is not. I’m very nice,” Steve argued.

Clint nodded. “Super nice. The nicest.”

Bucky eyed them both before setting to work on the safe. Somehow he’d acquired two dumb blonds.

Steve turned to Clint. “So why do you think I don’t like you?”

“You know . . . “ Clint said. “It’s just that you never seem to want me around. We never really hung out . . . before, and I don’t know you super well or anything. Maybe it’s because I’m taller than you. I like spending time with Bucky, but I get the feeling you regret introducing us.”

“Aw, Barton,” Bucky said. 

“I don’t regret it at all, Clint,” Steve answered. “I’m glad you two have each other. But you’re right, I’ve been, well—”

Bucky looked up. “A petty, jealous bitch.”

“Yeah.” Steve ducked his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “I am a little jealous. It’s tough to remember that I don’t have to be Cap anymore. Sometimes I forget I can just be Steve. Can we start over?”

Clint grinned. “Of course! Bring it in!” He opened his arms, beckoning Steve into a hug. Steve looked at Bucky. Bucky shrugged. “C’mon, Steve. You know you wanna.”

Steve slid over on the couch. Clint hugged him as tight as he could, and Bucky swore he heard Steve’s ribs creaking.

“Don’t break him, bird boy. I really like that guy. Wanna keep him. Ah-ha!” Bucky jammed the lock pick into place and spun the dial. Pushing the heel of his metal hand against the lever, Bucky opened the safe.

Clint beamed and dropped beside him on the floor. A few bags toppled over and onto the rug, and Clint snatched them up and hugged them to his chest. 

Bucky blinked. For a suspicious safe filled with suspicious safe things, this was . . . 

“Clint.”

“Yeah, Buck?”

“Did you know what was in this safe?”

“Duh.”

Bucky took a deep breath and released it slowly. “Lemme get this straight. You dragged me away from my nice warm bed, and my nice warm Steve, at three in the morning to beat up a buncha bad guys, steal a safe, end up in jail—without my having finished my mocha because you pissed off the cop . . ." he said, picking up one of the bags and turn it over, "for coffee?”

“But you had a great time, right?” Clint asked. “Plus this is really futzing expensive coffee. It’s _civet_ coffee. It’s supposed to be the best. Plus, I promised I’d replace the coffee I drank, so, here ya go. Good as my word.”

Bucky frowned. “What the futz is a civet?”

Clint waved a hand. “It’s like a cat or something, I don’t know. I’m not a zoologist, I’m a coffeehawk.”

“What the futz is a coffeehawk?”

Steve chuckled. “Yes, Clint, a civet is a cat. The cat eats the coffee beans, and then, uh, the byproducts are collected.” He shrugged. “The fermentation process it undergoes in the civet’s digestive tract allegedly enhances the flavor.”

Bucky took another deep breath. “Barton.”

“Barnes.”

He looked up, using all his glowering power. “I’m gonna futzing kill you.”

Clint squeaked and ran behind a truly bewildered Steve. “Save me, Cap! Use your powers of truth and justice! Shield me.”

“Clint, he can still see you.”

“Damn right, I can,” Bucky snapped. “We went through all of that not just for coffee, but cat-ass coffee?”

The other blond ducked further behind Steve. “It’s delicious! I wouldn’t have you help me steal sub-par coffee. C’mon, Buck.”

Steve’s face twisted with the effort not to laugh. “Wait, you drank my French roast?”

“Uh, yeah. Sorry about that. Ran out at my place.”

“You broke into our apartment at three in the morning for coffee?”

“Coffee _and_ heists. With my bestie. And I can’t break in if I have a key.”

Steve looked back at him. “When did Buck slip you a key?”

Bucky stared at Clint. “You told me Steve gave you that key.” 

Clint grinned. “Who wants coffee?”

“Steve,” Bucky growled. “Move.”

“No, Steve, don’t listen! “

Steve looked between the them, struggling to keep his composure. “ _I_ want coffee.” He stepped aside and Bucky lunged.

Clint dodged, skirting around him back toward the safe. His face fell. “Does this mean we’re not gonna cuddle?”

Bucky bared his teeth. “Oh, we can cuddle. C’mere.”

“Steve, help!”

“No one can help you now, Barton.”

Clint backed up, slinging his bow and quiver over his shoulder and scanning the room for exits. “I can see we need a break, bro. You’re still my bestie, and I still love you, and I’m sure once you’ve had a nap, all of this will be hilarious. I’ll take a rain check on that movie.” 

With a wink, Clint raced past him into Steve’s studio. Specifically, to the window. He slipped through and dropped down, and a second later, an arrow shot past. Bucky heard the thunk of a grappling hook, and a faint, “Text you later, Buck!”

Bucky stood, baffled. “What the hell just happened?”

Steve couldn’t hold it in any longer. His shoulders shook as he doubled over, laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe. 

A muscle in Bucky’s jaw twitched. “Shut up, Steve.”

“Oh, man,” Steve wheezed. “I was . . . so mad when I heard your voicemail . . . but oh my god, Buck . . . this was great.” 

Bucky eyed him, expression flat. The door to the safe bounced against the frame. “He took the coffee, didn’t he.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yup.”

“He’s just gonna drink it.”

“Yup.”

“You actually brewed a pot, didn’t you.”

“Sure did.”

“I’m never gonna learn not to hang out with dumb blonds, am I?”

“Nope.”

“Steve?”

“Yeah, Buck?”

“I’m going to bed,” he said, heaving a sigh. “Enjoy your freshly brewed pot of betrayal.”

Bucky slipped into their bedroom. Steve followed, then hovered in the doorway. “What, baby?”

“Buck, does this mean _we’re_ not gonna cuddle?”

Turning down the bed, Bucky rolled his eyes. “Fine, but only if you bring me a cup, too.”

Steve went back to the kitchen. Bucky stripped and slid into bed, nestling down into the pillows. His phone lit up. Clint sent a kissy face. Bucky replied with a middle finger. A moment later, he sent a kissy face back. Steve handed Bucky a cup before climbing into bed, too. 

“It’s really good coffee,” Steve said, leaning over to kiss him.

“It had futzing better be.” He sat up and took a sip. Of course it was good. Damn it, Clint. He picked up his phone again.

  
  
**Fine. You win. The coffee is delicious, even if it’s cat-ass coffee. Beating on the Tracksuits was great. Don’t tell Stevie, but if we get arrested next time, let’s make it for something good.**  
  
**Clint: Whatcha doing tonight?**  
  
**Sleeping.**  
  
**Clint: Okay, that’s fair. But we need another caper.**  
  
**No, Clint.**  
  
**Clint: Yes, Buck. #BattleBoyfriends**

**Clint: We can invite Steve! Wait.**

**Clint: Does that make us a threesome?**  
  
**Barton, I stg.**  
  
**Clint: Oh. So that’s just a you/Steve/Carter thing?**  
  
**Clint, stop angling for confirmation on World War Threesome. Go to bed. This caper is over.**  
  
**Clint: You’re wrong, Buck. I’m in bed, but the caper never ends. It just is. ;)**

  
  
Bucky groaned. He set his mug on the nightstand and buried his face in Steve’s neck. 

“What is it?”

“Barton. Being Barton.”

“Aw, you love him.”

Bucky snuggled closer. “Yeah, I do. He’s a disaster, but he’s _my_ disaster. I guess I’m stuck with him.”

“Hey, Buck?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m still your favorite dumb blond, right?”

Bucky ghosted a laugh against Steve’s skin. “Yeah, baby doll. We might flirt, but I know whose bed I belong in.”

His phone buzzed again.  
  
**Clint: Are you guys making out???**  
  
Steve plucked the phone from Bucky’s hand before he could respond. “He totally knows we’re making out. Just ignore him.”

Bucky smirked. “Don’t know if I can. You might need to distract me.”

Steve carded his fingers through Bucky’s hair. “I think I can manage.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My new favorite fun fact is Clint's height. According to Marvel, he's 6'3'' which makes him an inch taller than Steve. Which I'm sure riles Steve up just a little.
> 
> This was so much fun. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. And as Clint said, the caper never ends. It just _is_...


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve Rogers, formerly Captain America, just wanted to sleep in. Unfortunately, one missing boyfriend plus one Hawkeye usually equals more trouble than is worth thirty extra minutes.
> 
> This is what happened while the boys beat down some tracksuits and stole a mysterious safe full of mysterious safe things.

Steve shifted, reaching out for Bucky. What he got instead was a cold pillow, a distinct lack of boyfriend, and a crinkly note. He reached the other way and turned over his phone: 3:55 AM. 

“Buck?”

No answer. He flicked the lamp on, eyes still bleary from sleep. Where the hell could Bucky have gone so early? He pulled the note close, yawning.

_Morning baby,_

_Clint ~~kidnapped~~ . . . requisitioned me for some kinda mission. He probably did something stupid. Okay, not probably. Totally. I’m not sure I’ll be back before you wake up, but I’m gonna try. Maybe we can just stay in today? Love you._

Steve’s heart melted a little. He pulled the blankets closer, still wishing Buck were there. Maybe he could snag an extra thirty minutes before his alarm went off and he got ready for his morning run. Better yet, maybe Bucky would be home by then. Bucky was very persuasive when it came to talking Steve _out_ of his morning run. Besides, Bucky was with Clint. How much trouble could they really get into?

Steve sat up, wide awake. If there was the slightest chance of trouble, those two would find and exploit it. “So much for that,” Steve mumbled, throwing the blankets back and climbing out of bed. At least he could make a decent breakfast before he set out.

He stumbled into their kitchen, the faint scent of coffee still lingering in the air. Of course. If Clint had broken in to collect Bucky for some harebrained misadventure, he would have made coffee first. Bucky must have done the dishes. 

Starting a fresh pot, Steve noticed a second note on the counter.

_I know, you’re probably thinking about just how much trouble we can actually get into. Granted, you can’t take either of us anywhere, definitely not together, but it’s not like we’re gonna get arrested. We’ll go beat on some bad guys, grab a cup of coffee, and I’ll be home before eight._

Steve chuckled. The more he thought about it, the more he liked the sound of staying in. Clint would probably crash with Buck, but Steve didn’t mind. A day of binging bad television would be more than welcome. Maybe they could order a pizza or something, hang out. 

How many pies would they need to feed two supersoldiers and a hawkguy?

Uncertainty crept into his chest and settled there. He didn’t want to impose. Steve loved that Bucky had Clint, but sometimes he still felt like that scrawny kid he used to be, small and ignored. Bucky had always had an easier time making friends. Steve wasn’t entirely sure Clint even liked him.  
Well, okay, Clint liked him, but Clint wasn’t as easy around him as he was around Bucky. Maybe it was the whole formerly-brainwashed assassin deal. Steve had Sam—and Natasha, wherever she was. He poured himself a cup of coffee and padded into the living room, only to pause halfway to the couch and backtrack. A third note was pinned to the door. He pulled it down and settled onto the couch to read.

_Three notes is overkill, isn’t it? Whatever. If you’re up before I get back, do something nice for yourself, okay? You worry too much, and yeah, I know you can’t help it, but I promise I’m okay. There’s a painting in your studio I’m sure needs your attention._

_Plus you know I think it’s hot when you’re all paint-splattered and artsy. ;)_

_Have fun. I love you._

He blushed. How the hell had Steve gotten so lucky? He could have sworn little cartoon hearts came out of his eyes as he pressed the note to his chest. Bucky was right; he worried too much, though he was trying to let go. His Bucky was back, home safe and sound, and now Buck had Clint looking out for him, too. Things always had a way of working out. And yeah, maybe there _was_ a painting he’d neglected. 

Steve left the note on the table and headed for his studio. Bucky’s mat leaned against the wall in one corner, his painting supplies in the other. What would have been a guest bedroom they’d converted into space for Steve to draw and Bucky to practice. The half-finished painting on the easel was a partial cityscape, the current New York blending with the New York they’d left behind. It was all a trick of the light, but at the right angle, Steve thought it _felt_ like home. 

As long as Bucky was with him, he _was_ home.

A little over an hour later, his phone lit up. Steve bit down on the handle of his paint brush, wiped a hand across his jeans, and flicked the screen on. 

**Bucky: Baby, you got no idea how bored I am. Hanging out with Clint is fun, but this isn’t even a decent street fight.**

**Bucky: You remember that afternoon, back when we were kids, where I moved all of the furniture outta the living room and taught you how to fight? Damn, you were something, Stevie. Still are. I’m glad I remember that afternoon. Was one of the best of my life, seeing how proud you were of yourself.**

**Bucky: Hey, I was thinking about stoppin’ in at that bagel place you like. Breakfast in bed sounds pretty great. ;)**

Steve grinned. Breakfast in bed would be nice, but what followed would be even better. He painted another portion of the sky, stopping only to turn on the record player in the corner. He hadn’t felt this relaxed in days. Steve vowed to do things for himself more often. He had all the time in the world, after all. 

The painting was nearly finished when his stomach growled. Coffee alone could not sustain a supersoldier, and he’d unfortunately foregone his morning run _and_ breakfast. He stabbed the end of the paintbrush into the home button on his phone. The little text box popped up: One missed call, one voicemail. If Bucky didn’t know what kind of bagel Steve wanted (and he did; Steve always got the same flavor), why hadn’t he just texted? This time Steve nearly put the wrong end of the brush in his mouth as he fumbled for the phone.

No need to get all Van Gogh about it.

Bucky’s voice came through, exasperated and little on-edge.

_“Hey, Stevie. Uh, look, Clint and I might have gotten into a bit of trouble. We didn’t break the law or anything. Well, not a big law. Oh, man, this sounds bad. Basically Clint’s mouth wrote a ticket our asses couldn’t pay, and we, uh, might need you to come bail us out. Like, for real. We’re in a holding cell. Sorry, baby. I’ll explain everything, promise, but please come rescue me? It’s totally fine if you wanna leave Clint here, though. He got my mocha confiscated. Okay, I know, least of my problems, but I promise I’ll make it up to you. I know you can’t turn down a b—“_

Bucky’s voicemail ended with a click, leaving Steve debating what exactly Bucky thought he couldn’t turn down. And the day had been going so well. With a sigh, Steve headed toward his desk and opened one of the lower drawers. He pulled out a glass jar stuffed with odd bills and loose change. For once, Steve was glad for his Depression-era habits. 

“I’m gonna have make this a Bail Jar now,” he muttered. 

He taped a post-it to the front, _Clint and Bucky Bail Fund_ written neatly across it.

Steve threw on a hoodie and jeans, pausing a moment to slip on the eyeglasses Bucky loved. He might as well tease Buck with what he couldn’t have; served him right. Then he returned to the kitchen for another cup of coffee. 

Of course, Steve was absolutely going to bail him out, but that didn’t mean he had to do it right away. 

And Buck was gonna owe him way more than a bagel.


End file.
